Gratitude: Day Nine.

Today, I was grateful for the Scottish sunshine. The gales of yesterday blew themselves away, and, after some early cloud, the sun came out and shone down on the land, lighting it with a kind of gentle beam. Look here, it seemed to be saying; look at what I can make the colours do.

Scottish light is not like any other light. It’s part of the reason I moved here. I fell in love with the light. I used to go to Italy a lot when I was younger, and it reminded me of old Italian light. It felt ancient and venerable, and cinematic at the same time. After twenty-one years, that light still astonishes me.

I had a lovely meeting with the people I work with. I do about five jobs, and this is one of them, and it gives me a sense of meaning and a sense of belonging. And then, in the afternoon, the tiniest great-niece, who is only six, appeared with the posse to do the horses, and she ran about shrieking and laughing and smiling her head off. We normally have incredibly strict rules at the field about doing everything slowly and carefully, with no sudden movements. The horses had come galloping out of the woods when we called them, so they were a bit hopped up on adrenaline. Normally, I would make everyone lower their energy and beam out calmness to bring the mares down, but I soon saw this was absolutely useless with the tiny person. She was like a little firecracker, and there was no taming her. 

And then I looked at the mares, and I saw them all regarding her with the kind of adoring, indulgent looks that old aunts give their favourite nieces, and I knew that it didn’t matter. They stepped carefully round her and did not mind the kinetic energy at all. ‘Let her be,’ they seemed to say. ‘She can shoot off in ten different directions at once and spread joy wherever she goes.’

And that was what she did. The moon blazed down on us as the gloaming fell, and the older children laughed and smiled, as if they could remember what they were like when they were that age. 

The grand finale of gratitude was when my English tutee arrived to brush up on her Prufrock. She’s got her mock exams coming up and I was getting her ready for them. I felt a huge weight of responsibility to her, to send her into these dreaded exams with a sense of self and a swing of confidence. She’s much cleverer than she thinks she is, but I’m always trying to get her to believe in herself more, to get rid of the blocks that stop her keen instincts and her interesting mind expressing themselves to their full degree.

So I think I had a slight sense of doom; that we weren’t quite ready; that I couldn’t help her enough. But she was dazzling. Her insights were startling and her spirits were high and her choices were all utterly brilliant. ‘You are ready,’ I said to her, in delight. ‘You’ve managed to get to the heart of one of the most complex poems in the English language, one which professors and scholars are still arguing over. You’ve absolutely nailed it.’

She doesn’t like compliments much. I’ve noticed that quite a few of my young people have trouble with praise. But she looked right at me and she gave a little smile and she nodded her head, as if she finally believed me. I see now why teachers regard their jobs not as a career, but as a vocation. I’m not sure I ever felt such a pure sense of achievement in my life. I think she’s going to amaze herself in those exams. And to feel I had a small part in that makes me happier than I can say.